Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“I can order for myself.” Derek looks at me, then the barista, and says, “A vanilla latte,” before looking at me again, obviously proud of himself.
Damned if I don’t chuckle.
“I’m paying,” he adds.
“I don’t need you to pay for me.”
“So? I don’t need you to pay for me either. What makes you think I do?” I open my mouth to argue with him but before I can, he says, “I owe you.” The look in his blue eyes turns serious, unlike the playful light that danced in them a moment ago. I nod, still not liking the fact that he believes he owes me for doing the right thing, but at least it’s not a BJ in the bathroom.
He pays and a moment later we get our drinks before finding the quietest corner we can to sit down. It’s slightly awkward for me being here with him—being here with anyone. I spent my whole dating life with Steph. Most of our friends were couples around the same age as us or Zane’s friends’ parents. I didn’t have coffee with twenty-six-year-old guys I wanted to fuck.
“I still think sex would have been more fun,” Derek says before taking a drink of his coffee. I look at him across the small wooden table and try to piece together the two sides I’ve seen of him. Try to see the man from the assisted living facility in the man in front of me. The man who was obviously there caring for someone he loved, with the one who stumbled into my Jeep, not caring for himself.
“Who are you?” I find myself asking.
He frowns, his lips slightly pouty. “Um…Derek? We met when I accidentally got into your car a few weeks ago and then you took me home with you. Any of that ringing a bell? You’re not that old.”
“That’s your name. That doesn’t tell me who you are.”
“Why do you want to know who I am?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.” I haven’t figured out why I’m here or what I hope to accomplish by coming. None of it.
The corners of his eyes wrinkle slightly as though he didn’t expect my answer. Hell, I don’t think he expected my question either. I have a feeling Derek doesn’t let many people know him. We have that in common.
“Ugh. I don’t know what you’re looking for. If you have a question, just ask.”
He takes another drink of his coffee, and I ask the first thing that comes to mind, “Have you lived in Atlanta all your life?” when I really want to know is, Who is the man you were visiting?
“Have I lived in Atlanta all my life?” he repeats. “I throw myself at you and you want to make small talk?”
There’s no real reason for me to be here making small talk with him. I can understand his confusion but somehow, I know Derek would hate to know I saw him at the home. “Yes.”
He frowns again, and I can tell my simple answer throws him. “You are so weird. Fine. I’m from the ’burbs in North Carolina. I grew up there.” He shifts as though he feels uncomfortable.
“What do you do?” I ask him next, trying to get away from a subject that he’s obviously iffy on.
“I started at Georgia State but realized it wasn’t me. I enrolled in beauty school, and I’m fucking fierce at what I do, of course. I’m a hair stylist. I can help you out with that, if you want.”
“Are you saying there’s something wrong with my hair?” I run a hand over my hair. It’s buzzed short on top and even shorter on the sides—a little lighter than my brown and gray beard. “I like it.”
“I like it too. It felt good against the palm of my hand.”
“We’re getting off track, Derek.”
“No. I’m getting on track. You’re the one who’s off it, and Jesus, do you know what it does to me when you talk like that? If I didn’t want to fuck you, I’d hate it, but as is, it’s hot.”
And so is he. I am so fucking in trouble with him. “What about your family?” I ask, trying to piece together who he was seeing.
“What is this? Fifty questions? Most of my family is back home. We’re not very close. They’ve never been real fond of my choices.”
“Being gay?” I question.
“That among other things. My parents aren’t religious. At least, not too much, but their families both are, so homophobia just sort of got passed along. They just disapprove…and I think I was obvious enough from the get-go that they weren’t going to try to talk me out of it.”
“I’m sorry they were like that,” I say, meaning it. That shit is so fucked up. My mom is a lot of things, but she would never have given a shit who I loved or fucked.